Fetch
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: When Wilson unexpectedly gets called away to a medical convention, House is left to, uh, babysit. Takes places Season 3
1. Chapter 1

**Fetch: Chapter One**

"I thought you took care of this."

House's first remark to Wilson upon opening the front door is not regarding an unwanted pregnancy or mob hit. Instead, the statement and the angry eyebrows that accompany it are directed at the small, white, and utterly decrepit dog at Wilson's feet.

"Long story," says Wilson, shrugging and giving a pitiful glance to Hector, "can I come in?"

"Sure." House backs up and opens the door further, allowing Wilson entrance, but shuts the door about halfway down the leash. "Demon pooch has to wait in traffic though. Hell, why don't you take off his collar and let him play fetch with traffic?"

House is answered by a small whine at the door. Wilson makes sure his hands are planted firmly on his hips before giving House an extremely successful glare.

"God," says House, opening the door to dog-width, "this thing's worse than your cancer kids." He takes a few steps back, collapsing on the couch and watching Wilson half-drag Hector to the middle of the room. He smiles when he notices the dog's hitched steps and wobbly front leg. "Still copying me."

Wilson eases into the chair opposite the coffee table, picking up Hector and setting him in his lap. "About that," he starts, scratching Hector behind the ears, "seems Bonnie doesn't feel like paying $2,700 to have his _torn ligament_ repaired. How did that happen, anyway?"

"I told you, it was an accident," says House, shrugging. He scoots back and finds a forgotten potato chip between the seat cushions of the couch—which he eats. "So, you're here to…beat 3,000 bucks out of me and demand I apologize to your dog in person?"

"Watching Saturday morning cartoons would be more productive than asking you for money, and he's not my dog. He's her dog."

House shakes his head. "Nope, he's your dog now." He brandishes his Vicodin for Hector's benefit, who perks up his ears at the vaguely memorable sight. "So you're paying for the surgery," he states.

"He's scheduled for this Friday." Wilson rubs Hector's head, as if the dog will know they're talking about him. "Only thing, I just got an email about a conference in New Brunswick that Cuddy wants me to go to. It's just tomorrow and Wednesday, and I know you don't have a case, so—"

"No."

"House, it's just two days!"

"That mutt chewed up at least $6,000 worth of valuables last time he was here. In fact, I should be beating 3,000 bucksout of_ you._"

Wilson slowly puts Hector on the ground and looks around the apartment. "House, all the crap in here combined doesn't add up to $6,000."

"Yeah, not since _he_ came," says House, pointing menacingly at Hector, who doesn't seem to sense any danger from more than 5 feet away—the limit of his cataract-cloudy vision.

"House, he trusts you. He's hasn't got many years left, and I'd rather leave him with someone he's remotely familiar with rather than some dirty old kennel."

House stares at Hector, who is at this point unaware that he has to stare back to warrant a positive result in this argument.

"Oh," adds Wilson, "and I have a huge bag of chew toys in my trunk."

House holds out his hand while continuing to stare at the dog. He flexes his fingers towards Wilson. "Leash," he says.

Wilson scurries over to House, eagerly offering up the leash.

"And," says House, "your copy of Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' on vinyl. You know, the 'crap' your dog chewed?"

"House, you gave that to me for my birthday."

"Only because I already had it when Chase gave it to me for my birthday."

House smiles as he almost lets the leash slip from his fingers. "I'm only asking for something that's rightfully mine."

Wilson looks at House, then to Hector, then at the leash in House's hand, then at the mental image of Pink Floyd's beautiful, beautiful, mint condition album in his locked filing cabinet among pseudo-important legal documents, and his laminated Hank Wiggen baseball card. Then he looks at House again. "I'll give it to you Monday," he says.

"Great," says House, taking a firm hold of the leash and whistling until Hector looks over. "I'm sure we'll have a good time."

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"Okay, I know you've got my cell number in your phone, but just in case I put it on the fridge, plus the name of my hotel. Uh, food's in the cabinet under the Oreos. His pain meds are in the medicine cabinet next to your laxatives, and—"

"Are you leaving your dog, or your three year-old asthmatic son?"

Wilson finishes putting a food bowl in the kitchen and traipses back into the living room. "Well, you aren't exactly the most revered baby sitter," he says, surveying the room and the dog for anything he might've forgotten.

House flips on the TV. He looks nervously towards Hector before asking Wilson, "What if he dies on me?"

"He's not going to die if, God forbid, you take care of him." Wilson gives a parting pat on the head to Hector, who sticks his tongue out in appreciation. "Thanks again for doing this, House," he says, grabbing his coat and not expecting a response.

He touches the doorknob, stops, and looks back to the man on the couch. "Oh and House?"

"What?"

"No more Vicodin dog treats."

House pulls his legs up onto the coffee table and scoffs, "Like I'd share."

He's answered by a closing door and a smile he doesn't see. A minute later, there's the sound of a car starting, and after that, there's only an ominous soap opera violin solo and the wheezy panting of the little white dog. House switches the channel and glances at Hector. "Good times," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fetch: Chapter 2**

It's 6:30PM, and his leg is under the impression that it's actually a cannibalistic chainsaw. Since there are no other chainsaws around, it's decided to settle for eating House's hip and back and sanity instead. So he's flipped on the television, stripped down to his boxers, shirt, and socks, whipped out the morphine (just in case), the bourbon (just because), and ensured Cuddy knows there's not a chance in Hell he's coming to work tomorrow, but there's still the matter of the dog.

"I'm talking to a dog."

This is the first thing House says to Hector, and therefore it's not really necessary. But from now on, it will be. Because the thing is, talking to dogs is inevitable. Be it, "ya hungry?" "wanna go outside?" or "play ball?" no one is immune, and if there's one upside in that for House, it's that Hector isn't likely to talk back.

The dog sits and watches him watch TV, and that's when he's compelled to say something. For the first time in his life, he's the conversation starter…and carrier…and, most likely, the ender. At least until Wilson finally steps through that door and collects his mistake.

But until then, the extra body makes silence uncomfortable, and five minutes into Law And Order, he's got to speak again.

It's only fitting therefore, that House asks, "What are you looking at?"

_Dunno, but it's not the corndog in your hand. Nope, definitely not the friggin' corndog._

House realizes, before he's able to cower in shame because he's just created an imaginary voice for an animal that does nothing but sleep and poop, that Hector's "voice" sounds an awful lot like Wilson's. In fact, it's downright difficult to imagine anyone else's voice accompanying this dog, because he and Wilson are so obviously the same prematurely miserable, self-righteous soul shared between the two bodies.

So, by the time House looks back to Hector, the rather doggish thought of, _Are you gonna eat that, or conduct Dvorak's Ninth Symphony with it? _no longer seems so odd.

House sits up on the couch and lets the rest of his corndog slide off the stick and into Hector's strategically-placed mouth, which is fine, because he's not all that hungry today.

----------------

Hector lies beneath House's feet where they form a bridge from the couch to the coffee table. He's curled up in yesterday's dirty t-shirt, not seeming to mind the smells of latex, sweat, or Old Spice.

The Vicodin is on the end table next to the phone. The morphine sits innocently on the coffee table. House spends about half of his time watching TV and the other half pondering romantically about the syringe without actually using it.

He changes the channel while still engaged in a staring contest with the green metal box. Soon after, Hector begins to whine. House looks up to find someone selling something, a horror only amplified by the letters HSN in the bottom left corner of the screen.

House is beginning to think that Hector has good taste until he looks at his watch. It's 7PM. That's the time Wilson said Hector needed pills, or was fed, or…something.

Hector whines louder, despite his pitiful little howls getting soaked up by House's shirt. House points a finger at him. "Hey," he says, "shut up."

Hector doesn't, and it seems just as well, seeing as he shares a soul with the one man House can never get to shut up.

House puts his left leg to the floor and sits up, leaving the right one on the table. He gives Hector the most challenging look one can give to a dog and asks, "What do you want?!"

House pries his right leg off the table and sets it on the floor like a mug filled with hot tar. Meanwhile, Hector has managed to further entangle himself in the t-shirt.

"You want food? Will that shut you up?"

_Yes, I've just had a huge corndog in the middle of the day and I want food._

House leans over to get a better look at Hector. More specifically, the way Hector's leaning on his left side while his right front leg apathetically skims the ground. Hector, of course, sees this display of interest as a proper invitation to rest his head on House's lap. House scoots over, allowing Hector's head to drop onto the couch, and allowing his own leg to get in a few good punches as well.

"Poor you," he says. "Your pain relief requires the opposable thumbs of a cripple twenty paces away from your meds."

_Hypocrite._

House swallows two pills while glancing enviously at the morphine box, and then looks back to Hector. "Relax," he says, "just means you'll have to wait until these kick in."

They spend the next nine minutes watching the home shopping network in silence.

House looks at his watch again, reinforcing the idea that the drugs are in effect, because until now he wasn't sure. He glances over to the hallway, managing a look at the bathroom and the medicine cabinet inside. Then he looks at Hector. Stupid, stupid Hector. Hector, with his stupid tongue and stupid eyes and stupid half-floppy ears. And stupid leg. "You owe me for this," he says.

He pries himself off the couch and uses his left leg to roll around the end table. He leaves the cane, opting instead to support himself with the hallway walls.

Twenty-one paces later, he's staring at his own sweat in the mirror while breathing like a McDonald's addict. He looks at the reflection of the living room, expecting at the very least to see fire and brimstone, perhaps a genetically engineered T-Rex or two, but it's as he left it. He even sees a fluffy white tail sticking out from the side of the couch, lapping clumsily at the side of the coffee table.

So as he opens up the medicine cabinet and removes a bottle of Rimadyl labeled **Hector Theodore Wilson—NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMTION**, he allows himself to (very briefly) hope that Hector's stay will not end in multiple insurance claims. And this hope seems well earned by the time he shuffles back to the welcoming couch and the small white dog that still waits there…without valuables or pieces of furniture in his mouth.

"Alright, Theo," says House, eyeing the pill bottle as he struggles with the childproof cap, "open up."

Hector doesn't even look.

House spills two pills into his hand instinctively, plopping one back in when he remembers that Wilson's specific directions spoke of one pill, and one pill only. He looks back at Hector, and pours the second pill out again.

"Theo," he says, tapping the dog on the shoulder like a lost old lady. "Hey, Hector."

Hector perks up his ears at his name and sits up on his back legs. House holds the pills flat in his palm and waves his hand just below Hector's mouth. "Eat these," he says. Hector doesn't. In fact, he grants the pills no more than a passing sniff before burying his head in the t-shirt once more.

"Fine. Suffer," says House, leaning backs into the sofa once more.

It's two minutes before Hector starts to whine again. With a vengeance.

House gives a Wilson-worthy sigh in the direction of the Wild Turkey bottle on the coffee table, and considers pouring them both a glass. Hell, it'd probably be like drinking with Wilson…with less gossip and more drool.

He refills the glass on the table, but doesn't drink. He leans over and looks into the kitchen, as if to reassure it's still there. Then he narrows his eyes at Hector, the corners of his lips making upward turns in something vaguely resembling a smile. Hector doesn't know he should be scared.

House pries a cheeseburger chew toy from the depths of the couch cushions and tosses it in Hector's general direction. "Stay." He rises with a grimace and hop-skips to the kitchen, where he stumbles around by the dim window light to find Hector's bowl. He finds it, or rather his sock-cloaked big toe finds it, and he picks it up for the trek back to the sofa. It's red and plain, despite House's firm conviction that it'd have a paw print and perhaps an atrocious pun in Comic Sans.

He slumps into the couch and leans over the coffee table, using his elbow to shield the bowl from Hector's tongue while he pours in some bourbon. He plops the pills in before setting the bowl down in front of Hector's adventurous tongue.

"Cheers," says House, reaching for his own glass, the glass that's no longer on the table.

He jerks his head around, looking for anywhere else he might've set it down. He checks the end table, seat cushions, even Hector's mouth before deciding to embark on a serious search and rescue mission.

He stands up for the third time that night, a fact made incredibly apparent by the fact that he's in three times the agony he started in. He turns to his left this time, and takes a step.

He finds the glass under his left foot, or rather _in_ his left foot. In 2/3rds of a second he's on his ass, his right leg not even trying to support his hissing and cursing weight.

-----------------------------

Seven different grammatical usages of "Shit" later, the glass is out of his foot, the bottom of his sock is red, and not all the bourbon in the world will move Hector from his hiding spot beneath the coffee table.

House pulls off his sock with a grimace, giving himself a moment to catch his breath before prodding his wound and cursing some more. It's not deep, not as deep as he thought it was, anyway. It could probably do with a stitch or two, but House's minimum is four and he doubts he has the patience or energy to reach a suture kit, needle and thread, or even a Band-Aid. So the scar will be ugly—it's not like that's some foreign concept to House. So he won't wear flip-flops and he won't go to the beach. No changes required.

He groans and flops back against the carpet, debating whether to make the giant scoot back up to the couch, back up to the morphine. That is, if Hector hasn't eaten the syringe and spit it up on some hazardous patch of carpet. He wishes he cares enough about this carpet not to drip blood on it, but he doesn't. He can't will himself to stop bleeding; his left sock is a murder scene similar to his foot, and there's a large, diabolical creature preventing him from even considering the removal of his right sock. To many, this creature is called a leg.

He twists around until his weight is on his left hip and he sufficiently feels like a deformed mermaid, then he starts sliding.

He reaches the side of the couch. _Screw it._

He's almost even with the coffee table now, and at perfect glaring height for the likes of Hector, who stares back at him from beneath the table.

"What're you looking at?" says House. "I try to help you out and you try to put me in a wheelchair." He leans against the outer armrest. "We'll see how much food you get tomorrow when you have to get it from the top cabinet yourself."

Hector eye-replies with, _Help, you've fallen and you can't get up._

House is glad nobody can see him shaking his head menacingly at a dog that's done nothing but knock over a glass and make eye contact with him. He lays against the carpet once more, leaning his head back until he's staring at the upside-down laundry basket on the floor, the one that's overflowing and smells of pure sweat.

"Bad dog," he sighs. "Bad…" He trails off as soon as his eyes hit a pair of relatively clean socks perched at the edge of the laundry basket. Hell, they even match.

He sits up, giving a right-side-up look at them before granting a glance to his still-bleeding foot. Then he looks at Hector, and whistles.

Hectors crawls out cautiously from beneath the table, tilting his head at the unexpected beckoning. House whistles again and he teeters closer, greeted not by scowls or yells or mocking barks, but a gentle pat on the head.

House grabs Hector by the collar and makes sure he's looking at the basket. "Hector," he says, pointing, "get the socks."

But Hector just sits and stares dumbly at House. House taps the floor before him and points again. "Go get it," he says. The words come out in a maximum of two syllables, and he's frightened by his own realistic impression of a dog owner.

Hector, meanwhile, continues to stare.

House sighs, wiping a hand across his forehead. He points just once more, jadedly indicating the laundry basket with his arm. "Fetch."

Hector lurches forward and marches swiftly, if gimpily, towards the basket, where he grabs the topmost t-shirt and turns around, tail wagging ferociously behind him.

House shakes his head and points again to the socks. "Socks," he repeats, as if Hector will learn to match the sound with it's corresponding command simply by hearing it enough.

Hector grabs another t-shirt, this time bringing it back, close enough that House can tell which one it is. It's blue. Not a pretty eye-matching, day-brightening blue, but a more falsely aesthetic blue, the blue of novelty picture frames and motocross jerseys. It has an American Red Cross logo on the square of the back, indicating House'd gotten it for free. Figures.

House shrugs and pats the carpet next to the couch. "Sure, bring it here."

Hector does, hobbling fast enough to make House slightly jealous. He drops the shirt on House's lap and nudges him in the side, making sure he knows it's there.

House takes it without thanks and wraps it around his foot, resisting the urge to smile as he knows there's no way the blood'll come off in the wash. With his ass still glued to the floor, he tests his weight on the shirt and the foot within it, deeming the patch job one of his better impromptu fix-its. He leans against the couch and stands up, only to fall into the sofa once it's attainable by gravity alone.

Suddenly, the morphine's at eye-level again. Then the syringe is in his arm. Then House's eyes become heavy. Then he doesn't care that ever light in the apartment is on.

Hector makes his way back to the other dirty t-shirt, kneading the sleeves into a bed of some sort, and making that trademark dog circle before collapsing into it and settling down.

The last thing House's sees before the weight of his upper lids becomes too much for him is Hector's bowl. It's completely empty, except for two very soggy pills at the bottom of the dish. "Clever."

"Still a bad dog," House mumbles. And they both drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fetch: Chapter 3**

House wakes up smelling pee. It's fresh pee. He knows this because it's a nose-strangling smell, immediately recognizable and only rivaled by very new vomit or very old garbage. He can tell that the pee didn't find a toilet either, which is odd because Steve McQueen died last winter and it's been a few months since he was that lazy, and one would think he'd forget about the smell just a little bit. But that's another thing about pee: you very rarely forget how to do it, and you never forget how to detect it.

He opens his eyes to yell for a nurse, or janitor, or anyone with patience for the smell and a paper towel, when he realizes he's not in his office.

It now, unfortunately, becomes an entirely unlikely scenario that an adventurous psych patient has pissed where the floor meets the wall between the elevators and the prematurely old bench. He blinks as his eyes adjust to light that's too bright even for the morning, as a strange tongue slaps his chin repeatedly. He gets the feeling it's not a woman.

He jerks his head away and glares below him at the small white face and the tongue attached to it. Now he gets it. Generally, the equation dog plus pee smell tends to equal dog pee. "Oh piss" becomes the new "Oh crap."

He rolls his feet off the couch. A distantly warm liquid hits his right foot at the exact moment a sharp sting hits his left. He drops back to the couch with a death stare fixed on Hector, who looks thoroughly guilty.

The dog's tail hangs between his legs as his ears sink back on his head. He looks at House in a manner that has a _sorry my existence causes you grief _quality. And if House didn't know better, which he does, he'd think it were almost…cute.

House scrubs a palm over his face as Hector grows more pathetic before his eyes. If possible, of course. But one assumes a curious, temporary philosophy when coming down from morphine: not everything seems possible anymore, but nothing looks all that impossible either.

He stands up (more carefully this time), ignoring the burn in his foot and gingerly hopping over to where the piss-soaked carpet ends and blood-stained rug begins. Hector stays where he lies, not seeming to mind being elbow deep in his own urine so long as he doesn't have to venture out to greet his babysitter.

"Come."

He knows what Hector will "say" long before his eyes meet the dog's.

_That's what she said._

"Come here, Hector."

Hector sticks with the lesser of two evils and plops his head down on the wet carpet. House sighs as he looks outside. The sky is the color of a moldy newspaper. He checks his watch. It's 5AM. His hand connects with the odd bump on the side of his hip, which, upon further investigation, is revealed to be his Vicodin. He strangles the bottle out from betwixt his boxers and flannels, where it'd be so gravely entangled the night before that the word "betwixt" actually seems appropriate.

He pops the lid off and pours two into his palm. Then he closes the lid and gives the bottle a shake, like a short rain stick with very little spiritual involvement. Hector perks up his ears at the noise, causing House to perk up his eyebrows.

"Remember these?"

And when his subconscious can't come up with a witty, doggish retort, he shakes the bottle again. Only this time, Hector stands up and takes a wobbly step in the direction of House, or the Vicodin. Probably the Vicodin.

He continues to truck over the carpet, getting every paw wet except for one, and he's doing a damn good impression of House. So good, in fact, that even House knows better than to ask him if he's okay, or to evaluate his emotional state, or to offer him a ride to the office. Suddenly, House is having a hard time remembering which of them shares a soul with Wilson.

He whistles to get Hector's attention, after putting his hand up in The Stay Position doesn't accomplish anything. "Hold it, Hector. Sit." Hector, not quite out of his own waste, sits down and stares dumbly at House. House is not yet convinced that "because he told him to" is the reason Hector sat, and nonetheless, he mumbles, "Good dog."

_Which isn't true_, he reminds himself, the statement merely being for the benefit of Mr. Hector. Good dogs know when to pee and when to sleep. Good dogs have names like Patton, Kipling, and Winsor. Good dogs know their country music and aren't afraid to sniff your crotch, but somehow they manage to be gentlemen about it. Bad dogs have names like Mexican busboys.

House turns off the lights as the sun begins to make an appearance, scratching his head, freeing his brain from the lingering morphine cotton. He walks back to Hector, who's still sitting patiently, and thinks about how much the dumb mutt resembles a good dog right now. Then again, there are times when Eddie izzard "resembles" a woman. He tosses Hector a Vicodin, fully expecting him to make a dramatic, half-diving catch, but he doesn't. Hector doesn't even flinch, and the pill lands soundlessly on the carpet.

House tilts his head, marveling at either Wilson's ability to pill-proof Hector, or Hector's sudden personality change. That is, if Hector had a "personality" to begin with. He passes the bottle from hand to hand, and as the pills rattle inside, Hector perks up again.

This is when (if the swiftly approaching pun is to be pardoned) House sees. Sees that Hector _can't_ see, you see.

At least, not very well, he reckons, waving his hands and watching Hector follow them as best he can. He takes a coaster from where it levels the piano bench and flings it in Hector's direction. Hector doesn't move. House thinks about how great Hector would be at Chicken.

He slumps onto the piano bench, wincing as its uneven leg makes him catch himself with his feet. No point in telling which foot: _as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same._

"So," he says, "Wilson left me with Helen Keller…doggy style."

_Helen Keller was deaf._

"And you're not?"

_Not when I can hear the sweet sounds of neighbors dialing ASPCA._

House stands up and crosses to Hector, ignoring the hot burn on his foot as he steps on his wet shirt—Hector's bed. "Okay, just taking care of the dog now," he bellows for the paranoid benefit of his neighbors.

It wouldn't matter; living next to Gregory House implies a high tolerance for bizarre and somewhat frightening sounds.

He dramatically shakes the bottle in Hector's face, dumping out two pills and offering them up. Hector takes a whiff and looks away. "Oh come on," he says, backing up, "just because you can't see doesn't mean it'll taste different, or make you less floaty. It doesn't even smell—" House raises the pills to his nose and sniffs. They smell like an ancient fusion of chalkboards and palates balls. Alas, the one thing Hector won't eat.

House remembers cheese, though. And peanut butter. A dog will eat it's own paw if it's covered in cheese or peanut butter, which is of course, why God invented cheese and peanut butter. Without them, all prehistoric dogs would have paws, and therefore run much too fast to be domesticated. Nowadays, they are also spread on sandwiches. Cheese and peanut butter, that is, not dog paws. Although for a price, dog paw preserves aren't completely out of the question.

He shuffles to the kitchen, finding the peanut butter with the top partly screwed off. It's stale, but somehow House thinks Hector won't mind. He takes a dirty spoon from the sink and plunges it in, dropping the pills in the glob and heading for the fridge. He then wraps it all up with an American cheese bow and heads for the living room. Spoon burrito in one hand, cane in other, determined tongue flapping in the nonexistent wind like, well, a dog in a car.

Hector hasn't moved, and House hasn't expected him to. As is the way with animals too pitiful to escape their own piss. He deposits the spoon into Hector's mouth, careful to remove it once the cheese has been bitten off and the peanut butter is stuck sturdily to the roof of Hector's mouth. And sometime during it all, the pills fall down the back of Hector's throat. House is almost disappointed it's that easy. Almost.

His ass finds the armrest of the couch and takes a seat, while his hands find the phonebook and the phone respectively, on the end table. He stares at the carpet while he dials.

Stanley Steamer initially says they'll come between the hours of 1PM and 4PM. They revise that answer to exactly noon when they are offered a mint condition copy of The Wall on vinyl and a $100 tip.

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It's times like these when he wishes the shower were bigger. In fact, it's times like whenever he wants to wash his hair and not bang his elbows on the walls when he wishes the shower were bigger.

With awareness of this fact, he closes the door behind him while the aroma of urine and matted fur infiltrates the bathroom much faster than his mere can of Lysol. He plugs the drain and lets the water run, tossing one towel on the floor and two more on the towel rack. The Vicodin sits on the counter, right next to a bottle of Pert Plus, so that it almost looks like he's prepared.

He shuts off the water and dips his hand in it, just to make sure he wont burn himself. Then he picks up Hector, who whines, and sets him in.

He pours in the Pert, as if to counteract the water's yellow tint. Hector shakes his head, blinking the drops out of his eyes and attempting to lick the water off his own snout. His ears sink back and against his head and he shivers, despite the fact that the water's warmer than a hot tub. House pities hairdressers.

House kneels by the tub with a grimace and a curse, pouring some more Pert in his hand and slathering it on Hector like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Hector's fur lies flat, and he looks like he's lost ten pounds, bringing his final weight to about an ounce. He works his way down Hector's legs, rinsing him off as he goes. When he reaches Hector's front right leg, however, a yelp makes House jump as well, because he forgot.

And while he doesn't necessarily feel guilty that he forgot, he feels guilty because Wilson never forgets. Wilson never forgets to walk on his left side when they're alone. Wilson never forgets to walk on his right sight and slightly ahead of him in crowded areas. Wilson never forgets to buy him lunch trays light enough to carry in one hand. Wilson never forgets never to talk to House about any of this. And even in this shower, a long time ago when he was rinsing pained yellow vomit off House's mouth and chest, Wilson didn't do something stupid like this.

But we can't all be Wilson. So the rest of us end up apologizing to dogs.

House finishes rinsing off Hector and lets the water out, picking him up in a towel and placing him on the rug. Hector takes his revenge swiftly, shaking off on House's shirt and face, point blank.

With two blue Band-Aids keeping his left foot in one piece, House is first out of the bathroom. In fact, he's first in every competition with Wilson's dog and he can't help feeling good about that.

Hector straggles behind him down the hallway. His awkward steps hit the offbeats of House's like the hip-hop remix of a waltz, and it almost sounds poetic. House stops and waits for him to catch up, if only to insure no heinous drywall damage is inflicted between here and the couch.

He's stopped in front of the hall closet, where the door is propped open by last Tuesday's jeans (the ones he also wore Wednesday and Thursday). A crutch leans out into the hall like a conspicuous eavesdropper. He looks at his own cane, then back to Hector, who hobbles along eagerly now that he knows he's been waited on, his tag jingling rhythmically with his gait. But that's the thing about hobbling: You can make it musical and pretty and in sync with nature and everything good, but you're still a cripple.

"Come here, Hector."

_Yeah, let me run right over._

House opens the door and his pills, shaking one out and swallowing it before kneeling by the time Hector gets there. Hector sits too, relieved for the break.

"You know, 50 years ago," says House's disembodied voice from depths of the hall closet, "you would've been taken out back and shot." House doesn't turn around to get a response from Hector, but can think of several retorts himself, the mildest being that he too would've died without a second thought not too long ago. Like twenty years, tops.

He finds the duct tape first, then muscles his way through years of unkempt collections—golf clubs, hiking boots, dumbbells, and other things that don't matter anymore. He picks up an old arm guard from lacrosse and tosses it at the exact moment the UPS truck drives by, and therefore, the exact moment Hector decides to let out a bark worthy of a Great Dane. And therefore, the arm guard is really not thrown at all. It lands on the carpet next to his left foot, as if it were going to land there despite barking dogs and passing trucks.

House doesn't believe in fate, but if he did, he'd probably think it it's funny almost as often as it's tragic. In keeping with the new, comedic spirit of fate, that arm guard is exactly the length of Hector's front leg. So he grabs the duct tape and goes to work while Hector tries not to whine.

Meanwhile, out in the living room, one of Wilson's dress shirts soaks up the pee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fetch: Chapter 4**

Stanley Steamer arrives at 12:04.

House yells, "Door's unlocked" from the bedroom, though he's not sure if it actually is. Hector whizzes by him with a misrepresentative bark, the patter of his paws on the carpet occasionally interrupted by the plastic smack of his bionic leg. House hangs behind while he looks for anything vaguely resembling a leash, leaving Hector to introduce himself.

Hector greets their crotches before giving their grease-stained hands a lick. They shoot back partially-toothed grins while flopping their vacuum hoses on the carpet and generally fulfilling the stereotype.

"Hey, uh Mr. Mouse," one bellows aimlessly towards the back of the apartment, "Gregory Mouse?"

"It's House," he says, rounding a corner out of the hallway, "but you wouldn't know anything about those, would you?"

Hector tracks back to House and sits down, staring judgmentally at knee height. House palms a $100 bill out of his back pocket while he says, "So, Stan. What can I do for you?"

"Uh, you um," starts the first guy (apparently the only one with vocal chords or the balls to speak, or both), "you said there'd be a $100 tip if we—"

"I know," says House. "Just making sure I still had to pay you." He brings the bill up to the eye level of Stan (which statistically could've been his name, in a very large pinch) and waits for the vacuum man to take the bait. When he does, House rips the bill in half.

"That's fifty for now," he explains. "You'll get the rest after our walk." He nods to Hector, who for the time being seems rather fascinated with a squirrel perched on the windowsill behind the glass he doesn't know exists. Therefore, House continues to speak over the yips and whines of a certain fluffy, white dog.

"There's pee on the rug. There's bourbon on the carpet. There's blood by the couch. If the main Stanley asks questions, tell him it's cranberry juice and there's no need for hazmat suits. We'll be back in 45 minutes; don't touch the piano."

A quiet, previously ball-less Stanley near the door glares at Hector. "You gonna walk that thing? He's got a broken leg" is his astute observation through cigarette-brushed teeth.

House grabs the leash (handily labeled "leash" by one James Wilson) off the hat rack and snaps it onto Hector's collar. "Well," he says, "the vet wants to get him used to people again. Says if I get him out and about we're less likely to have a…recurrence."

"Recurrence…of what?" he says, pulling a pack of Paul Malls from his front pocket.

"Oh you didn't hear? My maid was mauled to death last week. Something about smoking on duty. Seems she got in a few good whacks with her purse. Broke his leg clean in two, poor thing."

The three Stanleys stand in gape-mouthed silence as House grabs a cabbie hat from the rack and sets it on his head. "Come along, Romulus, time for your walk." He opens the door and lets Hector out, tipping his hat. "Have fun." One Stanley discreetly slides the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.

House doesn't hear the phone ring.

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The traffic's breeze shuffles through the trees in the natural wind's stead. It's a phenomenon typically ignored in Frost poetry, but they don't care. The effect's the same. House has time to enjoy it now, sans politically correct games of catch-up.

In fact, House discovers at the corner of Proult and Bower that walking besides anyone but an injured lap-dog is a little like being a dyslexic news anchor, or a six year-old reading Hamlet, meaning that if the choice isn't to kill oneself or not to kill oneself, then it's definitely whether or not to wait for the handicapped. Because it is, in fact, just that. A game. One of status and guilt. Wilson waits. House never tells him he feels guilty. Wilson never tells him he's in a hurry. Wilson doesn't wait. Wilson does tell him he feels guilty. House doesn't tell him he feels proud. To be or not to be.

It's different with Hector. House tugs him along, pausing occasionally whenever Hector needs to pee or needs to sniff someone else's pee. He poops in front of the Bower Park gates. Hector, that is. House is glad plastic baggies never crossed his mind.

House can feel his cell phone vibrating in his left pocket. Physically, he ignores it. Mentally, there's work to be done. First he wonders why he even took the damn thing out of the house, then there's the matter of who's calling, and for what, and it isn't until he's concluded that they only people who'd call would be the team and Wilson, and that Wilson would only call his cell phone under extremely drunk circumstances, that he gets in line at the food stand with the intent of purchasing a cheeseburger and a hot chocolate.

If it is the team, and it probably is, it's nothing that can't wait 14 more hours, as Cuddy rarely gives him patients who won't last the night. And if she does, it's only when he's doing something fun. Strip poker with strangers would be an example.

The only strangers here are five year-olds. House draws the line at age 13.

Hector takes a seat on the cool pavement while House shifts his weight off his left leg and onto his cane, if only to spare his pelvis a few hours at the chiropractor. He looks longingly at the bench to his right as the line moves forward.

His phone rings again. He doesn't answer it again. But as an attractive and hopelessly single mother steps into line to tend to the snot-riddled nose of her young son, House deems the discount of his cell phone utterly justified.

He prods Hector with his toe until the dog makes a quiet chirp of discontent. She looks at him. He smiles. "Hush, Hershey," he says, shaking his head while smiling at nobody in particular.

Then he hears it—the sharp intake of breath, the slight click of her lips against dental hygienist teeth, the pang of her necklace on the top button of her cardigan as she leans over. Now comes the "Aw."

"Awww, he's adorable." She leans over further and House swears he can smell the silicone. She scratches Hector behind the ear and he doesn't seem to mind either. "What's his name?"

"Hershey. I know he doesn't look very chocolaty, but he's just so sweet," says House, now preparing to throw up this hot chocolate.

"You are too cute." She stands up and makes eye contact with House while he struggles not to make eye contact with her breasts. He unconsciously slides his cane behind himself.

She bends over again, and House thinks maybe he hears Hector (in Wilson's voice, of course) whisper, _Thank God._ Hector rolls onto his back while the woman rubs his belly, causing his good leg to perform the ever-clichéd rhythmic puppy kick. His tongue rolls out onto the pavement and he's thinking of nothing else. She finishes with a quick pat, and Hector seems pleased. House suspects this is because this is the closest Wilson's gotten to getting some in a very long time.

She looks back to House while making one of those whiny pity scoffs that only women in their thirties can make and asks, "What happened to his paw?"

"Oh," House starts, inching his way forward in line and only slightly dragging Hector, "I just adopted him from the humane society. Seems his previous owner didn't treat him very well."

_Genius, House. Friggin' genius, _is Hector's small endearment.

"Oh my God; that's awful," she says. She reaches the front of the line with her son and his boogers and orders two hot chocolates. She then hands five dollars of "allowance money" to her son and tells him to give the money to the cashier when he asks for it.

House takes an extra step forward and motions to the vendor that he'll pay, as it's a well known fact among single parents that afternoon hot cocoas are the equivalent to late night daiquiris and jello shots. Only thing better is probably coffee, but coffee doesn't come with marshmallows. Therefore, on a brisk yet sunny day in winter, House metaphorically buys a woman a daiquiri. His confidence startles him, and it isn't long before he'll blame it all on the attractive, if ancient, dog beside his left leg.

And now he waits for the reaction. She's either a recent divorcee starved for independence, or a longtime loner desperately searching to reach out and start anew. House isn't particularly fond of either option, but as both could potentially get him laid, he resists hasty judgments and lets his arm slide softly along her shoulder as he holds the five dollars out to the cashier.

"Oh, you really don't have to do that," she says, very intentionally keeping her arm (and therefore his arm) in the same position.

"I know," says House, bashfully, "but I just got a promotion at work and I'm feeling extra generous. Plus," he adds, leaning towards the kid, "I'll bet you'll want to spend your money at the Devils game this weekend."

Now he's certain he'll throw up, as until this moment he forgot this mindless slugger lingo is about the only thing that'll get him laid for free in this town. Not that he minds paying all that much, just that it's the challenge that's the real turn on. It's his turn in line, and he orders two cheeseburgers—one with pickles and one without.

He tosses the pickled burger to Hector, who gobbles it down as if it's the first meal he's had in two days, and it is. House makes his way somewhat subconsciously over to the bench…where the woman is also heading.

Hiding a misanthropic worldview and several deep personality flaws are one thing, but House finds, as he struggles to keep up with a 98 year-old (in dog years, at least) arthritic dog, that hiding the type of lurching gait that makes paraplegics shudder is quite different. Different in the sense that it doesn't work. He watches as the woman's eyes sink to his cane, and then to his leg. She gazes down to his foot and up to his thigh, probably searching for a brace or cast or some other indication that the limp is only temporary, and when she finds none, House can sense her grip tightening around her boy's wrist in a small if somewhat desperate attempt to keep him quiet.

Thus, to counter her judgments as of late, he does not sit down upon reaching the bench, but rather stands up straight, left hand gripping the armrest of said bench only for stability. Of course, he'll regret this later.

"How did you know?" says the woman distractedly.

"Know what?"

She indicates Booger Boy. "Aaron loves the New Jersey Devils. Never misses a game on TV. Practically never misses them in person."

"Well, this is New Jersey," says House, his patience failing him at about the rate his leg is. "The baseball cap was a pretty good tip-off, too."

The woman looks back at her son, this time to the Devils beanie conveniently located on his head. "Oh," she says, "I'm sorry; I completely forgot. I—God, you must think I'm so—"

_Stupid,_ is Hector's imaginary cutoff.

"What's wrong with your leg?" is Booger Boy's real cutoff, and Mother Dimwit literally turns a shade of green at the words. And it isn't just pale, either. It's green. Faded kelly green, like an old pickup truck that's seen too many drunken dawns.

"Used to be a police officer. Got shot on duty," says House, and it hits him that the lie is somewhat true. "Now I work at a hospital. How's that for irony?" he adds. Something about his voice reminds him of Jim Carey in _Dumb and Dumber._ He suspects he'll figure out the specifics later.

"Which hospital?" says the woman, so obviously trying to change the subject.

"Princeton Plainsboro."

"Oh, that's where we go. Maybe we'll see you there some time, Dr...?"

"Wilson," says House.

_Can't go wrong there,_ says Hector.

"Oh," she's says, lips tightening around the syllable like it's the small mammal to her inner anaconda. "We used to know a Dr. Wilson there."

_Oops._

"Funny," she muses, and House suspects it's actually not funny at all, to people who give a damn, that is. People like Wilson. "I mean, small world."

"Well," House starts, disguising a wince as that odd if somewhat commonplace face people make when trying to remember things. He shifts his weight from his cane back to his left leg and watches his new friends stiffen at the perceived sign of weakness. He continues, "It is something like the 8th most popular last name in America. What was his first name, your Dr. Wilson?"

She sits up. "Oh, he wasn't _my_—"

"Uncle Jimmy!" says Booger Boy excitedly.

House smiles. "Oh yes, James Wilson."

"You know him?" she asks, and House knows better.

"I know of him. He's an acquaintance really. How did you say you knew him?"

Hectors settles contentedly between House's shoes. _Well played, sir._

"We used to date," says the woman, emphasizing 'used to' as if in the process of overcoming a terrible speech impediment.

House chooses this moment to sit down, only because it might not look like he desperately needs to. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says. "That it didn't work out, not that you dated him," he says, which leads into a strategically placed laugh…by both parties.

"I'm not," she says. She looks at Booger Boy, giving him the sort of suspicious glare employed by most mothers when asking if their children's teeth have been brushed. Then she looks back to House. "He had this friend, some low-life drug addict going nowhere fast…I always respected Jim's need to help the guy out of tight spots, but eventually it became too much. I mean, the guy called at all hours of the night…I mean, _all_ hours," she adds through gritted teeth, giving a nod in Booger Boy's direction. "It's just hard to be with someone when they so obviously want to be with someone else. Anyways, one night at dinner I came right out and accused him of being in love with this man. That didn't sit well with Jim, obviously…" She stares forward for a while as if envisioning it all romantically. James Wilson is _that_ good.

A moment later she blinks herself from her reverie. "I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head good-humoredly, "here you just asked me if I knew the man and I've gone on some long tangent again. That's just like me, isn't it, Aaron?"

Aaron nods his head like he knows he's supposed to.

"So this Wilson guy," says House, only slightly losing his everyman falsetto, "what'd he say when you asked him?"

"Asked him what?"

"Whether or not he was in love with the guy, whatshisface…"

"Oh, I can't remember his name. It was something like Horse, or Hauser or—"

"House!"

House's gaze falls instinctively on Hector, as if his eyes will meet Hector's at the chasm of calls and answers, and all undecipherable queries related to human existence will cease to exist. But Hector's not looking at him. Hector's straining at his leash in the other direction, tail wagging furiously, determination waxing as the voice calls out again.

"House?"

There's a strange authenticity in the voice, embedded in vocal chords apparently just past puberty. House looks up knowing it will be Wilson, because it is.

He marches toward them, elbows flexed and hands dangerously close to his hips. His tie looks as it always does—one tug away from suicide.

"That's it! House!" says the woman, equally amazed and perplexed as she squints in the direction of the odd nonstranger.

As seconds pass and Wilson steps ever closer, those emotions duck for cover beneath the great silhouette of her disgust. He's plainly visible now, like that annoying moth on the corner of a television screen. He stands silent at about 15 feet away, squinting back, converting any well-deserved anger toward House into energy for the sake of his visual acuity.

She speaks first. "James?"

He takes a step closer. "Cynthia?"

House looks at Booger Boy. "Shit."

Wilson finally reaches the bench, eyes darting confusedly between House and Cynthia. "House, what's going on?" His fingers find the hair above his own ear and begin scratching—an ancient, primal tick of anxiety coming back to haunt him. "You two…know each other?"

"Not biblically," says House. "Yet."

"You." Cynthia stammers, and for a moment, House thinks that might be all she has to say, but her grip on Booger Boy tightens, as do her lips in preparation of what is sure to be a real zinger. "Y-You're him!"

And were this the playground of a school for privileged youngsters, and "him" was slang for "the musty hobo at the corner of 1st and Main," a real zinger it might have been.

Wilson's eyes grow wide as he tries to explain that which he does not yet know, but muted gurgles are all he is truly able to articulate. Hector paws impatiently at his pant leg, waiting for Wilson to say hello or feed him or drop dead before his eyes.

When Wilson does nothing, he sits, mimicking House's apparent detachment from the situation.

House remains seated, his right hand casually sitting atop his right thigh, cool needle pricks of pain casually dancing through his skin. "If I were 'him,' would that hypothetically limit the chance of getting your number?"

He makes eye contact with her for what seems like the first time. He swears he sees flames. Hot, orange flames lapping at her eyelashes from the depths of her irises, the color of which he can't recall. And though Wilson is standing mere feet away, for some reason, only his Wilson proxy answers.

_You think that's a medical problem, or just a neat way to keep the kid entertained?_

"Beats me," he says.

"What?"

That's the reaction of Wilson…or Cynthia. Both, is probably a safe bet. They sit silently for a second, the three of them soaking in their own hostilities and wondering if they might be having fun right now.

Cynthia is the first to break the spell. She turns her flames on 11 and points them at Wilson, who flinches ever so slightly, like a man who's been married at one time or another.

"James, if this is one of your stupid schemes to get me to—"

"Would you shut up for maybe one second of your life?" asks House. He gives her a lighthearted smile to let her know his offer's still on the table, and says, "Thanks, much appreciated."

He looks at Wilson, allowing his voice to drop an octave, finding the layer of sludge that typically coats his vocal chords deep within his throat and therefore regaining normalcy as he knows it. "What are you doing here?"

Wilson continues staring at Cynthia, mouth slightly parted, eyebrows resting on his eyelashes. He looks hurt, and House knows this only because Hector's been home to remind him of the facial expression. He pokes Wilson until Wilson grants him eye contact. But by then, he doesn't exactly look hurt. It's an expression past exasperation, anger; well shy of furious though. It's a hybrid of every Wilson emotion, the faulty color wheel of a very old computer.

"I called six times," he says.

"And if I were a 911 operator, that would matter," says House, selecting this moment to find his cuticles interesting.

"Six times, House. I could've bleeding in a ditch on the turnpike."

"Another reason I'm not a 911 operator," House says. He shifts a bit on the bench, trying not to wince, and gives a wink to Cynthia. "I am a very, very good doctor though."

Cynthia stands, getting Booger Boy vertical as well. "You're an asshole," she says.

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"

Wilson rubs his lips together nervously and waves a peaceful hand in front of Cynthia, his eyes begging her to stay, to understand, like…well…a dog. "Cynthia, I'm sorry." His tone hardens as he looks to House. "House—"

"You're here now," says House offhandedly. "Talk." He rubs his thumb over his thigh futilely, feeling the bottle in his pocket and the time since his last pill.

Wilson notices, but knows he's not allowed to say anything. He is of course, well trained. "My last lecture got cancelled," he says, speaking mechanically, as if into an answering machine. "I'm…coming home early."

"Well, thank God you made it here to tell me that." House shoves a hand in his pocket and manages to pop the cap off his pills. He squints. "How did you know I was here?"

"Stan said you took the dog for a walk."

"Stan who?"

"One of the guys cleaning _blood_ off your carpet. Followed the blood trail from there to here, the only place in _your_ walking distance." The sheer amount of smugness is unnecessary, as is the continued blood reference, but it makes House happy, if not visibly.

"Wait. His name was actually Stan?"

"That's what everyone called him."

House stands up, swallowing the pill he'd palmed during Wilson's explanation. "What are the odds?" he asks quietly, referring of course to the very small pinch of Stan being Stan.

"Should've played Powerball," grunts Wilson, his voice cracking on every third syllable. He mops a hand across his forehead despite the chilly air as the stress of his day nestles in amongst the other aches in his neck.

Booger Boy keeps asking if that's Uncle Jim. Hector hides beneath the bench, tail swishing through the air in yearn of adventure. But as he has Wilson's soul, he knows better. There'll always be great adventures to be had…by somebody else.

And Cynthia doesn't like being ignored. "Well," she says, hanging all the negativity in the world on that one small interjection. "I hope you two are happy together." She stomps. She literally stomps her foot. Instinct tells House to look at the ground, search for any cracks, or any mothers keeling over with broken backs. Everything else tells him to laugh, and he does. She grabs Booger Boy by the wrist and leaves. "Match made in Heaven," she mumbles.

House can tell that "Cynthia" is prying at Wilson's shut lips, desperate to share itself like a battle cry of lost love (or bullshit). But he is silenced by Booger Boy's tongue, and the sounds it makes whilst vibrating against the lips, which rudely display it for the world (meaning of course House and Wilson) to see. House flips the kid off.

House sits down, as does Wilson, and the world seems slower now. No more or less empty though, at least from House's perspective. He'd dish out $300 tonight for a professional, wouldn't bother to think about the latest one to get away.

It takes Wilson a while to speak. "Does she think that we're…"

"Besties? Of course," says House, "I showed her the scar from where we cut our palms and shook hands, vowing to truly become blood brothers."

"Odd, I don't remember that."

"Well, I wouldn't either, if not for the little reminder you gave me."

"What reminder?"

"Don't sweat it, Jim. In Africa, HIV is considered a lovely gift."

Wilson laughs, stretching out his legs as Hector sneaks out from under the bench. "Only the best for my bestie," he says. "So, were you exploring strange new worlds with the U.S.S. Little Greg? Or is this another diabolical scheme to do something diabolical?

House ruffles the fur on Hector's back with his left sneaker, finding some odd balance of cruelty and kindness in the process. Wilson notices. "Actually, I was exploring strange _old _worlds. You know, where 10 penises have gone before," says House.

"One penis."

"One penis?"

"One penis."

"Well, I can't say I'm…" House scrunches his chin before saying anything further. "Seriously?"

"Look at the woman," says Wilson, and House does. She's not more than a speck by now, noticeable only by the telltale hip swing of a woman looking to forget something and the barrier of hormonal possessiveness she's built around herself and her 34 Ds. "She's obviously desperate. Which is the only reason she gave you a chance instead of pity." He catches House in a grimace, one built on impatience and an unnatural lag in the placebo effect. "On second thought…" says Wilson.

House jolts upward slightly, eyes wide open. "I'm fine," he lies. "So, that kid…"

It's an excellent deflection, if he says so himself. Hector now paws at House's jeans, his back legs searching for purchase against the concrete (a hunt made harder by the added weight on his front paw). He appears to be stuck half-way through a heroic jump to the bench, because he is.

"Adopted."

"Riiight," whispers House. "Who the hell has a kid without sex? That's like, gaining a hundred pounds without the Twinkies."

"She likes kids. I thought she was nice. I…explored."

"How long ago exactly did your…exploration occur?"

"We broke up three weeks, four days ago," Wilson mumbles.

"Still counting days. She must be good," says House. "Great picking there, Tex," he adds, giving Hector a thumbs up. Hector whines, prompting House to grab his cane.

But instead of beating the thing, which he would most certainly do if Stanley Steamer also cleaned blood off of concrete, he uses the handle to lift Hector's midsection, and the dog finds its way onto House's lap. He pretends not to notice.

Wilson tilts his head. "Wait…Hector…led you to Cynthia? Did he remember her?"

"I don't know; care to ask him yourself?"

And Wilson very well could. And House is sure he'd find a beautiful way to phrase his inquiry to Hector, but Hector won't answer. At least, not in the way he would answer House.

House watches them both as Wilson goes on about heavy petting (or maybe it's just petting) and caring. He wonders if Hector is different around Wilson, if Hector looks at Wilson with those big dumb eyes and Wilson hears House's voice, sees the sharpness of House's stare inexplicably ingrained in the cataract-cloudy stupidity.

But of course, that would imply that House and Hector are somehow alike, which of course, they aren't. House reminds himself of this fact while nodding, perhaps giving Wilson the idea that he's listening.

"You do, don't you?" says Wilson, smug grin buried only millimeters below those dimples.

"Do what?"

"You care about him."

"If by 'care' you mean, 'don't want him to die because you would probably blame me," then yeah, I totally care."

"No, no…you took him on a walk."

"Because the bastard peed on my floor."

Wilson shakes his head, smiling. He gives Hector a pat on the head, and Hector licks his hand appropriately, but stays in House's lap. "Did you hurt him?" he asks.

"What? No," says House, admittedly caught off guard by the question. "Why? Does he, you know, look okay?"

"He looks great. A little thin, but I was actually talking about this," says Wilson knocking on the bionic splint of an unflinching Hector.

"Damn thing wouldn't stop whining," House says, looking at nobody.

Wilson nods, and they fall silent again. Ten more minutes roll by, feeling only like five, of course, as all three are tired and envious of those who breeze by with enough energy/mobility to run. Hector is dozing by the time Wilson finds the need to speak again, head perched atop House's right thigh, somehow oblivious to the situation altogether while knowing not to move.

Hector's warm, like an old heating pad ebbing away at the residual aches, stopping some of the new twinges. A fluffy, warm shield that actually wants to be right where he is, and House can't help thinking the dog's even dumber for it.

Wilson clears his throat. "Called Cuddy."

"Told her you're a daddy?"

"She wants me back tomorrow," says Wilson—the set-up statement for "it's late," which will be followed by "I have to go."

House doesn't care. If they leave, then they'll leave. He'll go back to the apartment and sit on the carpet, just to test it out, and drink the rest of their bourbon. His bourbon. He'll never cough up the other half of the $100 bill, but he has a feeling Stan will get by. In fact, he has a feeling Stan's information didn't come free. And somehow that Pink Floyd album will find its way back to his shelf. It always does. He'll listen to it alone because that's the only way it can be appreciated. And he won't be happy. Of course he won't be happy. But in an hour from now, when Wilson and Hector are gone, he won't be any less happy than he is right now.

And despite all of this, he turns to Wilson and says, "You look tired."

The words are nearly foreign on his tongue, and obviously foreign to Wilson's ears as he replies, "I am tired."

House gives Hector's head a pat and sets him down between Wilson and himself, wincing at the release of pressure on his leg. "Tell you what," he says, "I will watch your mutt for one more night, sparing you the marvelous task of collecting his goodies from my place, _if_ you give me…the $200 left over from your latest ATM visit." House throws in a sadistic smile, "You know, where you got the dough to bribe Stan."

Wilson shoots back a crooked smile of his own, leaning back and stretching his arms overhead. "Ah yes, Stan and his money woes. They go together like you, and the screwing of my exes."

"I was not going to _screw_ your ex."

"Oh, really. What other reason do you have for talking to her then?"

House coughs flippantly, baring his teeth in a sort of half-friendly smile. "In case you haven't noticed, I had two reasons. They were just below her necklace, very expensive?"

"I thought you said—"

"But those ones in particular were for looking, not touching. Like…jellyfish." He tilts his head. "Actually, that metaphor works on more than one level. I've gotta tell Chase. They've got some real bastard jellyfish in Australia, right?"

"They've got some bastard boobs in Australia, too," Wilson mutters.

House presses onward. "Come on, tell me you wouldn't do her again if you could."

"Of course, but the 'if I could' part would only follow extreme inebriation."

"For you or for her?"

"Both, probably."

House lands a soft punch on Wilson's shoulder. "I bought her hot cocoa, buddy. She's halfway there," he says. "For you though…I don't know, those pills that said 'NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION' made me feel sort of funny."

Hector licks Wilson's hands as they exchange slanderous remarks and disparaging breast-related observations.

"So," Wilson starts, his cue for retracing the object at hand. "Fifty bucks."

"For him?" asks House, pointing to Hector with disdain. "You obviously have not spent enough time with this mongrel to know the true darkness of his soul, or lack there of. He killed your cleaning lady. $150."

"You fired my cleaning lady because she refused to do your dishes and laundry for the entire week. $100."

"Last time I checked, the dishes needed to be _cleaned_. I guess the name of her occupation confused me, and deal."

Wilson looks over House and Hector together, just for a second, as long as House can tolerate being gawked at. He grabs his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out one crisp bill, one of the few whole bills House had seen all day.

Handing it to House, well, that's just outing him as a normal person, as equally prone to canine hypnosis as any asshole roaming the park in search of a good time. He might as well be ordering his 'LabLvr' license plates.

"This could be good for you," he says, suspecting House already knows.

"Hundred bucks? I'll say. I keep this up, I just might be able to pursue my dreams of running public service for Southwest airlines."

He knows Wilson's not talking about the money, but as long as Wilson doesn't know he knows, he's in the clear.

Wilson steps up, and into poo, which has been lovingly laid before him by the dog once sitting beside him.

"Told you your dog is a bastard," says House.

"He's not _my_ dog."

Wilson gives House a quick nod and stomps awkwardly down the path, pieces of Hector breaking off in clumps as he goes.

But Hector stays, intent on licking House's face free of stubble before sundown. House doesn't think about how filthy a concept it really is, for once.

And for the first time, Hector differs with Wilson in a way House doesn't expect, tells him something he doesn't know. And he's not sure if he likes it, but he is sure that if he were to talk to Hector now, Hector wouldn't talk back. At least, not in Wilson's voice, and probably not at all. Dogs tend to be quiet that way.

House puts his hands in his coat pockets, not intending to put up a fight. He's brought the office home with him though, one way or another. There, in his right hand, in the depths of his right pocket, sits a red rubber ball.

Hector stops licking him, opting instead to keep the seat beside him warm, maybe with the thought that Wilson might be back; maybe with the thought that it's cold out, that he's cold; maybe with no thought at all.

They sit in silence while House keeps the ball in his pocket.

_Maybe tomorrow,_ he thinks. For now, he has no puzzles to solve with it and no wall off which he cares to bounce it. Tomorrow, he might just throw it, and hope somebody else will bring it back.


End file.
